Carnival of Souls
by PeaJay
Summary: Someone is killing off anyone who has ever worked with Sherlock Holmes. Can the boys of Baker Street solve the case before the killer gets to John?
1. Chapter 1

John looked down at the young boy lying in a heap on the cold floor in the abandoned warehouse. The lad couldn't have been any older than sixteen – his face was obliterated beyond all recognition and he'd been stabbed so many times John lost count. He just couldn't fathom it. Pinching his bottom lip, he just shook his head, never looking away from the boy.

"All right?" Sherlock asked as he came to stand next to John.

"Hm? Mm," was all John could manage. He bit his lower lip and took a 'Parade Rest' stance to help him get a handle on his emotions. "He's just a boy, Sherlock. Who could do something like _this_," John said waving a hand towards the body. "It's just so…"

"Savage," finished Sherlock.

John finally tore his eyes away from the body to look at Sherlock. "Yes," he said. "Exactly."

Sherlock gently touched John on the arm. "John."

"I'm all right, Sherlock. Really. I just can't believe how barbaric people can be."

Sherlock nodded, satisfied with John's answer, and stepped over to Inspector Bradstreet who was kneeling by the body.

"His I.D. says his name is Oswald Spencer," said Bradstreet handing the card to Sherlock as he stood.

"Ozzie?" Sherlock looked back to the body, this time taking in every detail.

"Sherlock, did you know the young man?" asked John.

Even though the boy's facial features were unrecognisable, Sherlock was still able to deduce that the body lying before them was, in fact, Oswald Spencer.

"Yes," answered Sherlock. "He helped me with some of my cases in the past. Last time I saw him he was working in a barrister's office part-time – I helped him to get the job. Before that he'd been living rough since he was a child." Sherlock stared at the lifeless body.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry." John said putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to comfort him.

Sherlock didn't reply, but the gesture didn't go unnoticed.

Bradstreet cleared his throat. "Yes, well… Sherlock, can you tell us anything else - maybe about the killer?"

Sherlock took several moments going over the body and looked around the warehouse, shaking his head and muttering to himself as he did so. Finally, he spotted it - a chess piece, up high in one of the warehouse windows. "There!" he shouted.

"What does it mean Sherlock?" said John.

"I believe the killer is telling us he thought of Ozzie as a pawn – a pawn in whatever game he's playing. I fear poor Ozzie won't be the last."

Sherlock stood very still, thinking for another few minutes. He took one last look down at the young man he'd helped so many years ago, then turned quickly and walked away with John following close behind.

They reached the main road where Sherlock stopped and raised his arm to hail a cab.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine, John. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, it's just – you know? That poor lad. You got him off the street, you must have some feeling for the young man to have helped him like that."

"I was just returning the favour. He helped me first."

A cab stopped and Sherlock opened the door for John to clamber in. As John passed him he heard Sherlock say, "Some favour too…it got him killed."

John slid across the seat. After telling the cabbie their destination he turned to Sherlock. "How do you mean?"

"If I'd have let him be, left him on the street and not meddled in his affairs, he wouldn't have been a target. He'd still be living on the streets – invisible. Like we were before.

"We?"

"Yes. We. He was a clever boy John. Uniquely so. He knew the streets like no one else I've seen since. I was never sure how long he'd actually been on the streets, but from what I've been able to deduce it had been since the age of nine – possibly eight."

"My god," gasped John. "How? How could a child survive for that long, and who would turn him out like that to live on the streets?"

"From what he told me, his family was killed in a home invasion. His mother hid him in a closet and he saw the whole thing. Once the intruders left, he ran and never went back. I tried once to find any family he had left, but there wasn't any and as I said before John, he was a very clever boy. I'm not sure why he took to me though. You know me, I wasn't much different then. Only then, I was high most of the time and angry all of the time. I hated my brother, my drug habit, my life…everything and everyone. Still, this little street urchin took to me. He kept me fed, kept me out of the elements and made sure I knew where to go to stay washed. I think he even pinched and sold my drugs from time to time, both to keep me from using and to keep us fed."

"It's not your fault Sherlock." John grabbed Sherlock's hand. "Whoever the bastard is that did this is solely to blame. You helped Ozzie. You helped get him a proper job and got him off the streets. I'm sure he was very grateful."

"Maybe," was all Sherlock said as he turned to face the window.

The rest of the journey to Baker Street passed in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

I own nothing.

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.

This chapter hasn't been beta'd so please let me know if you find anything out of place. :)

Chapter 2

A week passed with no real break in the case. With little food and even less sleep, Sherlock was at the end of his tether and running on fumes.

"Sherlock, you need to rest," chided John.

"Stop mothering me John," snapped Sherlock. "I need to figure this out. I owe it to Ozzie."

"You won't be any good if you fall over from exhaustion. All I'm asking is that you rest for at least an hour or two, just to recharge. I promise to wake you." John seemed to be pleading with the detective.

Sherlock had heard that tone many times over the course of their friendship, and he knew John would keep hovering over him until he rested. "Very well," he conceded. "But no more than an hour," he said as he made his way to the couch to lie down.

"You're not going to your room?" asked John. He was met with a wilting stare from his flat mate. "Fine. All right," said John throwing his hands up in resignation. "Forget I said it."

The moment he laid his head down to rest, Sherlock received a text from Bradstreet, and was immediately on his feet again. "Come on John, they've found another one."

"Figures," said John. "Right when I get you to rest."

Sherlock was already by the door, coat on and tying his scarf around his neck. "Are you coming?"

"Of course I'm coming, you berk, lead on." John grabbed his coat and opened the door waving his arm in a grand 'after you' gesture.

Upon arrival at the scene, the first thing Sherlock noticed was how pristine it all was. A stark contrast to the dirty warehouse they'd found Ozzie in. The body was located in an empty office of the modern building, hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. Bright lights, shiny tile floors and stainless steel seemed to proliferate throughout.

Other than Bradstreet's men and the forensics team, the body was the only other thing in the room.

"Oh good," came the snide whine from Anderson. "Now that _he's_ finally here can we please get on with our work? I have more important things to do today than to wait on his nibs' opinion."

"Shut it Anderson," said Bradstreet. "I called him." He wasn't in the mood to listen to the petty squabbling today.

Sherlock didn't seem to be paying attention to Anderson anyway. He circled the body twice, looked at the man's shoes, sniffed them and then took a sample to analyse later.

"All right, you can lower him." Sherlock took several steps back to allow the forensics team in to do their job. While they were busy taking their own samples and photographs, Sherlock and John inspected the rest of the large empty office.

"So?" inquired John. "Is it someone you know?"

"I'm not certain," said Sherlock – a perplexed look on his face.

"You're not certain?" John was a little astounded. Sherlock was always certain.

"His face is not his face. I don't recognise him, but that doesn't mean I don't know him. We'll have to wait and see if he's got any identification on him, otherwise we'll have to wait for a fingerprint analysis and that could take days. Time we don't have."

John saw it first, just a smudge on one of the blinds – but it was enough that it was out of place in this environment.

"Sherlock," said John getting the detective's attention. "There," he pointed to the window.

Sherlock moved swiftly and drew the shade revealing the killer's message.

"_How do I rule the obsequious gang?"_

"What?" That's it," said John.

Sherlock moved away quickly to the next set of blinds and pulled them shut, revealing the rest of the message.

"_The secret is simple – I always hang." _

The sentence ended with a picture of a black bishop chess piece.

"Sherlock, we're ready for you," called Bradstreet.

John pulled out his notebook and took down the message left by the killer, knowing full well that he really didn't need to. Sherlock would've already committed it to memory.

Sherlock pulled his pocket magnifier out and carefully examined the man's face and neck area. Then felt along the man's impeccable suit, looking at the label and examining the stitching. After his examination, he stood and stepped back to John.

"John." Sherlock indicated for John to take a look at the deceased. "What do you think?"

John pulled on a pair of examination gloves and crouched low over the body. He stretched the skin along the neck and jaw and felt along the esophagus and trachea, paying particular attention to the bruising that had formed on the neck. "Hm, yes… I see what you mean Sherlock." John grinned up at his partner, pleased to finally be on the same page. "So who is he?"

"It appears his name is Marshall Elliot," said Bradstreet.

"Wrong. I think you'll find it the other way around, Detective Inspector. His real name is Elliot Marshall," corrected Sherlock.

"So you know him as well then?" asked Bradstreet.

"He's had plastic surgery, but yes…I know him. As with Ozzie, Elliot was able to get himself off the streets. He was an amazing tailor. I haven't purchased a new suit in some time, but I used to have all of them altered by Elliot. The man was a genius with fabrics. I'd heard his clientele was more upscale now- celebrities and such. He was very helpful on several cases, but I haven't talked to him in over two years. He must've decided to change his name, make a new start- hence the plastic surgery. He most likely wanted his clients to think he came from money."

"How can you tell he's had surgery?" Bradstreet was now hunched over the corpse trying to see any signs of an operation.

"You have to look along the jaw line," said John stepping up behind Bradstreet. "Also around the ears…there are small incisions in the lines in his neck. They're harder to see because of the bruising, but they're there. He also wasn't hanged."

Sherlock gave John a small nod to continue.

"The scarf that you found him hanging from couldn't have done the damage to the hyoid bone that you're going to find. This poor man has been strangled." John looked to Sherlock and found the affirmation he expected – still it was always a thrill impressing Sherlock.

"Yes, spot on I think Doctor Watson," agreed Sherlock. "He was hanged to make a point. The message from the blinds…"

"The black bishop – another chess piece," offered John.

"Chess is often used as a metaphor for spies. Both Ozzie and Elliot have been my eyes and ears on the streets, my spies as it were. So how does the murderer 'rule my spies'? He kills them. He's going after anyone that's helped me solve a case. But why? Why not just come after me?"

"He may," said John taking on a darker, more serious tone.

"That puts you in harm's way as well John. You must be vigilant," said Sherlock ignoring John's comment. "Take care when you're on your own." Sherlock took a step closer. "I mean it, no playing hero."

John scoffed. "I'm not the one that goes running off half- cocked Sherlock. That's you. Don't you worry about me, I was a soldier remember? I can handle myself."

"Sherlock, besides warning John, is there a way to contact the homeless network to let them know what's happening so they can look out for one another?" asked Bradstreet.

"It's already done," he answered. "I contacted them after we found Ozzie. It seems though, that our mysterious murderer is only interested in going after those that have been able to assimilate back into society successfully."

"Do you know the names of those that have been able to make the transition?" asked Bradstreet.

"Sherlock shook his head, "No. Once they made it off the street they didn't keep in touch. I don't blame them really. I'm a reminder of their past."

If John hadn't been looking, he would have completely missed the wistful look that passed over Sherlock's face.

Sherlock straightened. "I think we're finished here. Email Molly's findings once she's completed the autopsy. I'd like to know if he was drugged before he died."

Xx

Once in the taxi back to Baker Street Sherlock pulled out his mobile and began typing fast and furiously.

"What is it?" inquired John leaning over to see what Sherlock was doing.

"That saying – the one on the blinds…I've seen it somewhere before. I just can't place it."

John could see it was bothering Sherlock not being able figure out the riddle. "It'll come, you'll get it." He laid his hand on Sherlock's thigh and leaned over to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "My dear man, you always do." With an affirming pat on Sherlock's thigh, John slid away to let the detective think.


	3. Chapter 3

I own nothing.

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.

This chapter is mostly, well alright it's all, sexy times. If M/M isn't your thing and you just want murder mystery I suggest skipping it. I'll do a brief recap at the start of the next chapter of the one plot point that is covered in this chapter that pertains to the case.

This chapter hasn't been beta'd so please let me know if you find anything out of place. :)

Chapter 3

Sherlock couldn't sleep. Not only was the case bothering him, he still hadn't figured out the poem. It was infuriating. He'd spent all evening in his mind palace sifting through every room and came up with nothing. Several searches on the internet proved futile as well.

"Why can't I find it!" Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table, rousing John who had dozed off in his chair.

"Sherlock?" said John sleepily.

"This isn't working." Sherlock got up and started pacing.

John stood and stretched. He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

"John." Sherlock had followed John in and was now standing behind him, pressing against him and mouthing his ear.

"No." The answer came swiftly.

"Please? I can't think."

"Well that won't help. You can't use that as a crutch for when you can't focus. Not to mention, I won't be a party to it." John pushed back to give himself more room, but Sherlock didn't budge.

"I could always go elsewhere to get it," Sherlock purred in John's ear, sucking on the earlobe again to emphasise his point.

"You could…but you won't." John knew Sherlock. Better than Sherlock knew himself most times. He knew Sherlock would never betray his trust like that.

John turned in place and Sherlock crowded in on him, placing his hands on either side of John on the counter, effectively trapping him as he ground himself up against John. "Please?" he pleaded.

"Sherlock – mm- this isn't right. It's not healthy." John could feel himself getting harder. "Addiction is not just about drugs. You can't substitute sex. It's wrong and it's not fair to me."

"John," Sherlock rubbed up against John, kissing along his jawline and sucking at his neck as he cupped John's growing erection.

"Ungh. Dammit Sherlock!" John's small amount of willpower finally gave and he grabbed Sherlock's arse pulling him closer and kissing him passionately.

John moved forward. His intention was to back Sherlock up enough and to escape to safer ground. However, his brain was overridden by the powerful feeling in his crotch. So instead of making his escape, he backed Sherlock to the bedroom as he rapidly undressed. Once they reached the bedroom, Sherlock took control. He turned John and pushed him down onto the bed.

"I will never get enough of you John Watson. I **_am _**addicted and I freely admit it. How can that be wrong?" Sherlock began to strip in front of John who was lying on the bed propped up on his elbows, enjoying the strip show. "So what if a by-product of mind blowing sex with you helps me to focus more? It still means something – it's not just a shag for shag's sake. You are mine, and I am yours."

Sherlock was completely naked now and extremely hard, drops of pre come glistening at the head of his cock.

John licked his bottom lip and spread his legs wider, inviting Sherlock in. "Yes, but you take advantage of the fact that I can't say no to you. Not with this…not with anything."

Sherlock reached over and grabbed the lube from the nightstand. The case fading to the background as thoughts of a debauched and thoroughly fucked John Watson took their place. "I will stop … if that's what you truly want," he purred as he flipped the top of the lube open and emptied a generous amount in his palm. "However, I think you'd enjoy this much more instead," he said as he palmed John's erection and began to stroke.

Uh-mm Sherlock," sighed John. "Yes…much more. Keep doing that – mm yes. Oh yes, there." John's back arched as he pushed himself into Sherlock's plam.

"Yes John," growled Sherlock. "Tell me what you want." He moved his hand slowly down John's shaft to his glands, massaging them before moving his slick fingers to tease at John's hole.

"Christ. Sherlock. What you do to me," mewled John bending his legs to plant his feet on the bed and give Sherlock better access.

"So I'll take that as you want me to continue?" said Sherlock as he slid the tip of his middle finger into John while he stroked his thumb over the head of John's cock.

"Ungh," strained John. "Don't you fucking dare stop now."

Sherlock chuckled. "I knew you'd come around," he said as he slid his middle finger all the way in.

Sherlock loved seeing John this way…so undone and out of control. He pulled out his finder and pushed back in brushing John's prostate in the process. John gripped the sheets and gasped, writhing and begging for Sherlock to speed up his ministrations. Sherlock continued to prepare John, pressing two fingers in – then three. Delicately passing over the bundle of nerves again and again until it seemed John could take no more.

"For Christ's sake Sherlock, if you do that again I'm going to come. Please, have mercy you cruel man. Take me now before you kill me," begged John.

Sherlock's fingers halted as he looked down at John. "What did you say? Exactly. What did you just say?" He was deadly serious.

John saw the look. Knew it well. "I said for you to have mercy on me you damned fool. I'm coming apart here."

A fire blazed in Sherlock's eyes. "Oh John!" he exclaimed. "You brilliant man, I'll have you now." And with that Sherlock thrust into John ardently. Pounding in, fully sheathing himself in his lover. "You have, unh…no idea how you complete me, mm unh." Sherlock was circling his hips with each thrust into John to emphasise each word.

"Sher-uh…Sher oh god…mm," John babbled as he tried to grab on to something for support. Finally able to hook a leg around Sherlock, the next thrust went deep and right against his prostate. John arched and came instantly, screaming Sherlock's name.

As John's ring of muscles clamped down it only took another few hard thrusts before Sherlock tumbled over the edge. Body damp with sweat, Sherlock virtually collapsed over John.

"Hmph, Sherlock!" John huffed. "Bloody hell man, gods what you do to me."

"Mm," was all Sherlock managed – clearly not completely coherent. He could feel himself growing soft inside John, but was loathed to pull out as it would mean he would actually have to move.

After a few moments of stillness, John carded his hand through Sherlock's damp curls. "Sherlock, you're not falling asleep on me are you? I need to clean up or I'll be a sticky mess."

"Don't care. Don't move. Warm." Sherlock snuggled in closer, nuzzling John's neck.

John kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "I know, but I've still got to do it and that means you have to move. Come on." He kissed the top of Sherlock's head again and moved his hips to spur some action.

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned. "Very well," he said resigned and pulled out of John as he climbed off.

John winced slightly.

Noticing John's discomfort, Sherlock said, "Stay…I'll get you a flannel." He then leaned forward and kissed John. "I'm sorry if I hurt you," he said sincerely.

John grabbed Sherlock's face. "Don't you dare. That was amazing. It's not every day I can actually _feel _how much you love me_. _Jesus, Sherlock. That… I," John muttered. "What did I do to deserve something that incredible?"

Sherlock looked deep into John's eyes, seeing the love there. "Flannel first," he said after clearing the emotional lump in his throat. He moved from the bed to the loo, then back with a warm rag and began cleaning up John.

John stilled Sherlock's hand. "Tell me."

"Mercy," said Sherlock. "You asked for mercy."

"Sherlock," John began. "I. That's not what I meant. Surely…you don't think…"

"Don't be dull John. I've just ridden you like a show pony and you loved every minute of it."

"Git," replied John smiling up at Sherlock.

"The poem – on the blinds at the crime scene. I know where it's from. It's called 'The Hanging Judge'. John whoever is doing this, they know me…not only that I know them as well."


End file.
